Free Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova

been in the kitchen at all? And was he anywhere near the dead producer’s plate?
Cut it out, Vic
, I told myself.
Yesterday you were convinced it was a heart attack, and today you’re lining up the suspects.
    Tim’s expression hardened as I talked about Cal, so I thought it prudent to change the subject. “Listen, can I do anything? Silver setups? Coffee station?”
    â€œDone and done,” he said as he headed back to the kitchen, “unless you want to give Lori a call and tell her not to come in until later.” He grinned at me over his shoulder. “I think even you can handle today’s lunch rush.”
    And he was right. The “lunch rush” consisted of one elderly couple who ate Tim’s pasta special (rigatoni with sausage, spinach, and fresh ricotta) with relish, apparently unaware of the previous day’s happenings at the Casa Lido. They had probably never had such service in their lives; I kept their water glasses full, brought their food promptly, and even gave them a cannoli and two coffees on the house.
    After they left, I sank into one of the dining room chairs, one eye on the front window in case that News Ten van should roll up to the door. But the only vehicle that arrived was my dad’s Lexus, and I steeled myself for Nonna’s reaction to an empty dining room at the height of lunch hour.
    She stood inside the door, hands on her hips, her face stern. “Victoria, where are all the customers?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know, Nonna. Maybe they’ve been kidnapped. Or they’re hiding from us.” I lifted the corner of one of the tablecloths. “Nope, no customers under there.” I spread my palms out. “Where do you think they are? They’re too afraid to eat here.”
    â€œWe don’t need your sarcasm, young lady,” my mom said, and then opened the reservation book. Her eyes widened, and she slammed it shut. At that, my father looked around at the women in his life and, without a word, beat a hasty retreat to the bar. My grandmother held out one iron hand. “Nicolina, the book please.”
    My mother and I looked at each other guiltily. “We did have one table of two,” I said, trying not to sound sulky.
    Nonna didn’t answer. She closed the book slowly and adjusted her glasses. “I notice we have some cancellations.”
    â€œA few.” As my bravado evaporated, I squeaked like a seventh grader.
    â€œMore than a few.” She handed the book back to my mom.
    â€œNow, Mama,” my mom said, “we’ll weather this. Once they know how Mr. Parisi”—she paused—“um, expired, people will realize that it had nothing to do with the restaurant.”
    We hope,
I thought, looking at my mother’s worried face and my grandmother’s stern one.
    â€œBut the season starts in less than two weeks!” Nonna’s voice echoed across the empty dining room.
    â€œWe know, Nonna. We know.” I patted her arm. “Listen, Danny said the autopsy results are coming soon.”
    She made a grunting sound either of skepticism or dismissal, or both, and I took the hint. I had also neglected to mention that toxicology results could take weeks. I sneaked into the kitchen and helped myself to a small portion of Tim’s pasta special while I mulled over our predicament.
    Any chef, waitress, hostess, or busboy will tell you that there is nothing slower than a slow night in a restaurant. Massimo, Tim, and Nando ended up cleaning the refrigerator and freezer, while Lori and I wiped every surface in sight. When I heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, I knew our fate was sealed; if not the corpse, the rain would keep people away. We ended up with only two customers, and when one of them turned out to be a reporter for the
Oceanside Chronicle
, our town’s weekly rag, Nonna’s response wasn’t pretty.
    As the evening wore on with nothing to do, the men